


Take A Moment And Surface For Air

by PenguinKiwis



Series: Penguin's Star Wars One-Shots [12]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Atonement - Freeform, Blood and Injury, Burns, But probably won't get one because he's supposed to be the one giving the hugs :'), Gen, Hurt/very little comfort, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Made Up Kel Dor Language, Penance Through Pain, Plo Koon Needs A Hug, Self-Harm, Survivor Guilt, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-16
Updated: 2021-03-16
Packaged: 2021-03-24 13:40:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30073074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PenguinKiwis/pseuds/PenguinKiwis
Summary: Everyone has their own way of handling their pain.
Series: Penguin's Star Wars One-Shots [12]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2153106
Kudos: 15





	Take A Moment And Surface For Air

**Author's Note:**

> Reiterating for those who didn't see the tags, this has unhealthy coping mechanisms and mentions of self-harm. It's not a happy fic. Please proceed with caution.

The first thing he learned when he was a child no older than two years old standard— before his Uncle had scooped him up and brought him to the temple— was that life was precious.

Dorin was harsh, the weather was unpredictable, even with modern technology. Death was close to an unknown— Kel Dor didn’t die naturally the same ways that most others did. Life was precious. Kel Dor could be killed and life was very precious on Dorin. 

Plo imagined every life he encountered and connected with to be like a candle, appearing even if it was only a thin thread of the Force that connected him to them. These lights were all bright, burning, and short on time.

Kel Dor were not like other sentients. They did not have the same concept of _gender_ at first. Kel Dor had begun life as Kel Dor. The standard concept of Gender had only been introduced when other sentients arrived on Dorin. 

They did not celebrate holidays like other cultures, save the Wind Festival which marked the beginning of a new year. There had been no point in celebrating holidays and wasting precious resources in Dorin’s past as the storms raged and ravaged the planet.

They did not experiment with multiple partners until settling down, did not breathe the same air as others, nor did they eat many of the same foods.

They did not view things with a gray concept, things were very black and white in terms of justice and things got _violent_ and Kel Dor were sent to death for small things.

They did not speak the same way as many others, and language was confusing on the best of days to outsiders, both the verbal aspect and the mental one.

But most importantly, Kel Dor did not age the same way as other sentients.

Kel Dor were not like other sentients.

And that was simple fact.

And for long years, Plo Koon watched as little by little those flames of life dwindled. The candles dimmed, and embers cooled to ash. Sometimes the flame was snuffed in an instant, a blaster to the head, a knife through the ribs, the flame of a malfunctioning engine. 

Sometimes it was painful, Plo Koon was painfully aware of each life that surrounded him when he had been an initiate. Unable to fully control the force around him, he ended up in a sea of lights, lives, thoughts, and memories many times. Shielding was one of the first things that his Uncle taught him when the temple’s teachers expressed worry over it.

And life went on.

Plo Koon was decades away from his four-hundredth year of living and he had seen the candles of life flare into existence, dwindle to nothing, and be snuffed out in an instant.

It was not easy, but no one had said that it would be, after all. Being a Kel Dor off-planet was already hard enough without the connections and lives slipping away in the peripheral of one’s senses.

Tyvokka taught him to overcome the twinges and pains of the deaths that surrounded him.

He had done well, he had thought so at least. Carefully strengthening his connections with those who he was certain would _survive_ — but who really knew, when death was something that snuck up on one so easily— and blocking out the sharp pains in his chest and mind when someone’s light was extinguished.

He had done well, he had thought, when Master Tyvokka’s light was snuffed out, painfully slow in front of him.

He had done well, he had thought, when Micah’s light was snuffed out and there had been nothing he could have done.

He had done well, he had done well— he kept telling himself that, pushing emotions into the force, pretending that he was alright, lying when others asked him how he was. He was alright. He had done well to shield himself.

He had done well when padawans that he had found but had been unable to teach at the time had their lights snuffed out. He had done well when the children in the crèche passed away because of an illness or a preexisting condition.

He had done well when he grabbed the outstretched hand of Agen Kolar to leave the Petranaki Arena and fought alongside his fellow Jedi in the following battle outside of the arena.

He had done well, that was what Plo Koon kept telling himself as the War began, as it dragged on.

But that was a lie. It was such a lie and he could feel himself slipping.

There were _millions_ of new lights now— replacing one-hundred and eighty-four Masters, Knights, and Padawans who had died and been left behind in the _slaughterhouse_ that had been Geonosis. Because two-hundred and twelve Jedi walked into that Arena, thirty made it out, and twenty-eight of them returned back to the Temple, only to be thrown headlong into a war as Commanders and Generals— with glorified Slaves as their soldiers.

There were _millions_ of new lights, snuffed out so easily, so quickly in the dead of space and _Spirits,_ it was suffocating. It was painful. It was _too much._

**Brentaal IV, Gwori—**

Just _how many_ had to die?

He couldn’t block out the lights anymore. There were too many. He couldn’t block out the pain anymore. He had formed too many connections.

But he could alleviate it. He could force himself not to think about that pain.

When the output was lowered, the burn of a lightsaber was enough to take his mind from the gnawing pain in his chest.

When contained for a long time, the burning of his lightning was enough to take his mind from the extinguished lights in his mind’s eye.

 _“Kah’vh-kot,”_ he was certain his people would hiss. Coward.

Burns were something he could write off as blaster misses, the sparking that jumped across his skin and the shocks from inside that made him twitch and jerk he could simply write off as Jedi nonsense.

 **Abregado, Juma 9—**

It wasn’t enough. 

Kel Dor bled just like any other sentient did. He was careful not to stain anything that wasn’t his own clothing. Careful not to cut too deep with the vibroblade.

Thin red lines easily hidden under his sleeves— no one questioned him. He had always worn layers of robes. He could always hide injuries he inflicted on his own person.

_But it wasn’t enough._

**Khorm—**

There was a symphony unheard by others, just on the edges of his senses.

It surged and swelled with every death, deafening in Abregado. Painful on Khorm.

How many more lives had to die? How many more lights would flicker out, connections ripped from his head as life was torn from the galaxy. 

The pain he inflicted on himself wasn’t enough, wasn’t ever enough. 

_Kah’vh-kot. Kah’vh-kot._

Coward. Coward.

In the dead of night, he put the vibroblade away. No use bleeding when it didn’t do anything. His lightsaber stayed against his belt. No use igniting it when the burn didn’t do anything to alleviate the gnawing ache in his chest, and he had used his lightning long ago. 

In the dead of night, he slipped away. Away from the _vode_ who were sleeping, away from Skywalker, away Little ‘Soka who would _break_ if she saw him like this. Away from everything.

There were stars, bright and shining above them. Just like the lights that represented the many lives he had come in contact with, but life was snuffed out so quickly— so, so quickly.

They all did what they had to do to survive in the war, to survive the deaths. Overwork, reckless actions, entering relationships. They all did what they had to in order to ease the pain of the deaths they witnessed. To ease the guilt, to ease the anger and hurt. He was no different, he liked to think.

Plo reached up and removed his mask.

_Kah’vh-kot. Kah’vh-kot._

The first thing Plo Koon learned when he was a child was that life was precious. He had learned that as he watched his mother’s life slip from his father’s grasp, as he watched his sister struggle after her birth. He had continued to learn that life was precious as other sentients grew old and died, as lives he encountered were just as easily snuffed out like they were _nothing._ As his sister lost children, as his Master died, as his friends died, his _sons_ died.

The air was clear. Crisp and cool, and for a moment he held his breath, gazing up at the sky.

 _Kah’vh-kot,_ Sha would say to him, grabbing him by his robes and shaking him with an angry sort of hurt around her— and she was always fiercer than he had been. She was her mother’s daughter, after all. His sister’s daughter. Strong despite hardships.

Plo took a breath, feeling the burn that oxygen caused in his lungs as he breathed in and out. Deep, measured breaths. The taste of copper in his mouth would come eventually. 

_Kah’vh-kot._

He wasn’t trying to die.

He didn’t think of himself as suicidal. He wasn’t trying to die.

 _Kah’vh-kot,_ the Kel Dor would say to him— if they knew. _Kah’vh-kot._ Coward.

 _Il’hm-kut_ , he would say back to them. _Il’hm-kut._ Penance. 

This was penance, penance for living when others didn’t. Penance for leading others to their deaths and surviving when he shouldn’t have.

He took another breath, chest constricting at the painful burn.

Plo Koon put his mask back on, the gnawing need to distract from the pains of death satiated for now.

_Il’hm-kut. Il’hm-kut. Forgive my soul._

**Author's Note:**

> I've made up a language for the Kel Dor using fantasy translators and word scramblers and also the canon things we know. Also, I only slightly apologize for the strange way I've written this, but I felt as if it suited the feeling better.
> 
> Translations: 
> 
> kah’vh-kot: Weakling, Coward
> 
> Il’hm-kut: Penance (lit: Forgive my soul)


End file.
